nameless
Paranormal Adept
Great episode. Some good sparring between Richard and Don. Good Greer baiting too. As a fan of Andy Kaufman and Bob Zmuda it was great to hear Rich's anecdotes and I would love to hear more.
Theres a great story that Bob Zmuda recounts about his experiences with a Hollywood producer/writer he got as a job as a P.A. for called Mister X (Norman Wexler). Part of his job entailed carrying a briefcase around with him everywhere which contained a large manila envelope and a tape recorder;
"During the three weeks of “My Travels with Mr. X,” I experienced the thrill of having guns and knives pulled on me and had my life threatened by everyone from bartenders, club owners, shopkeepers and motorists, to men and women, and children. I had been deprived of sleep for days at a time as we cruised endlessly looking for material for Mr. X, and I had been in a constant state of dire tension, like a soldier in combat, from the moment I had met him. I had reached the breaking point a few times, but on every occasion I had been able to reel it in and hold it together. Our trip to JFK airport would end tat streak of tolerance.
Mr. X had decided that we would fly out of town on the spur of the moment, so we limoed out to lower Queens to catch a plane. The American Airlines ticket counter was packed with hundreds of people milling in half a dozen lines. Of course X went right to the head of one line and accosted a reservations agent.
“I want two first class tickets to Minneapolis,” he demanded.
Why Minneapolis? Why not?
“Sir, said the woman behind the counter, ”you’ll have to wait your turn. Please get in line.”
X tried for a moment to bully her, but it wouldn’t work. He finally gave up, and we went back to wait with the multitudes. Nervous that Mr. X acquiesced too easily, I felt like a meteorologist who sees a tornado on this screen and just waits for someone to report it. I knew something bad was about to happen. I didn’t have to wait long.
“I gotta take a shit,” was X’s
simple declaration. Assuming that he had said that so I would hold our place, I turned after a moment to see that he had merely stepped out of line a few feet and had dropped his pants and squatted. I had seem pretty much everything in the previous three weeks, but this caused my mouth to fall open. There is a form of social denial in crowds when a person begins to act antisocially or in a very strange way: people tend to look the other way or stare impassively. Even when a woman is being raped or a man is having a heart attack, a sort of paralysis overcomes people. They watch but do nothing.
So when this seedy, odoriferous psychopath hunkered down and began to void his bowels people looked on but pretended it wasn’t really happening. I was absolutely stunned. Since Mr. X was constantly eating garbage, drinking to excess, and generally treating his system like a Nuclear Superfund Site, his waste material was not only foul, it was unholy. As it were
the Bhopal disaster, people in line began to flee his poisonous emanations, yet it was a child who finally said something, exactly as in The Emperor’s New Clothes. “Mommy, said the little girl, who had eyes bigger than the kids on one of those black velvet paintings, “that man is going poo-poo!”
Indeed he was. And as that sickening spray of noxious, loose stool issued forth, a woman screamed. Then another. My recorder recorded. Mr. X grunted. I winced.
Then the police arrived.
Realizing his compromised position, X screamed to me as he struggled to fend off two NYPD transit officers while hoisting his drawers back into position. “Zmuda, catch-22! Catch-22!”
Like a missile technician in a silo, I methodically removed the tape from my pocket and replaced the music tape with the catch-22 tape in the Sousa machine. Meanwhile, the officers were escorting Mr. X out the door, past the pool or putrefaction on the terrazzo, past the line of dumbstruck travelers. Once outside, I punched “play” and jacked up the volume.
“Officers, if you are listening to this tape, the man you are arresting is Mr. X, an Academy Award-nominated screenwriter and personal friend of mine. My name is. . .”
Well, I can’t say whom the voice on the tape belonged to because it would give away who Mr. X really is. Or was. As I said, I’m not completely sure if he’s dead or alive, so I’m not taking any chances. But suffice it to say, the voice on
the tape commanded instant respect from the two law enforcement officers. They paused to listen to the message.
“Assistant, please open the envelope. . .” As I quickly opened the manila envelope, the significance of the generic nature of the term “assistant” made me realize that X’s turnover in help must be appalling.
“And take out the photo.”
I removed a five-by-seven. It was a photo of Mr. X with is arm around the shoulder of the man on the tape. As did the two cops, I recognized him.
“Assistant, take out the article.”
I pulled out a yellowed newspaper clipping showing Mr. X’s photo and headline announcing that he’d been nominated for an Oscar. Now that we’d established that he was who the tape claimed, the voice continued.
“Officers, you know me. I would consider it a personal favor if you do not arrest this man, my friend Mr. X.”
As the cops pondered this, X waved at me. “Zmuda, the case!”
Now a seasoned commando, I whipped open the case and began distributing cash to the men, one, two, three, four hundred. . .I counted out two or three grand each, and within seconds they not were not made, they were joking with us and actually offering to escort us back inside. That was it. I cracked. As the cops walked off, I handed Mr. X his case of payoff dough, unslung my recorders, and, to his screaming protests, walked away. I was punch from lack of sleep and feared either a nervous breakdown or a knife in my ribs. Hardly short of cash, I took a cab all he way back to Manhattan and went into hiding. And for the next month or two, I was the guy with the furniture piled up against the door."
Theres a great story that Bob Zmuda recounts about his experiences with a Hollywood producer/writer he got as a job as a P.A. for called Mister X (Norman Wexler). Part of his job entailed carrying a briefcase around with him everywhere which contained a large manila envelope and a tape recorder;
"During the three weeks of “My Travels with Mr. X,” I experienced the thrill of having guns and knives pulled on me and had my life threatened by everyone from bartenders, club owners, shopkeepers and motorists, to men and women, and children. I had been deprived of sleep for days at a time as we cruised endlessly looking for material for Mr. X, and I had been in a constant state of dire tension, like a soldier in combat, from the moment I had met him. I had reached the breaking point a few times, but on every occasion I had been able to reel it in and hold it together. Our trip to JFK airport would end tat streak of tolerance.
Mr. X had decided that we would fly out of town on the spur of the moment, so we limoed out to lower Queens to catch a plane. The American Airlines ticket counter was packed with hundreds of people milling in half a dozen lines. Of course X went right to the head of one line and accosted a reservations agent.
“I want two first class tickets to Minneapolis,” he demanded.
Why Minneapolis? Why not?
“Sir, said the woman behind the counter, ”you’ll have to wait your turn. Please get in line.”
X tried for a moment to bully her, but it wouldn’t work. He finally gave up, and we went back to wait with the multitudes. Nervous that Mr. X acquiesced too easily, I felt like a meteorologist who sees a tornado on this screen and just waits for someone to report it. I knew something bad was about to happen. I didn’t have to wait long.
“I gotta take a shit,” was X’s
simple declaration. Assuming that he had said that so I would hold our place, I turned after a moment to see that he had merely stepped out of line a few feet and had dropped his pants and squatted. I had seem pretty much everything in the previous three weeks, but this caused my mouth to fall open. There is a form of social denial in crowds when a person begins to act antisocially or in a very strange way: people tend to look the other way or stare impassively. Even when a woman is being raped or a man is having a heart attack, a sort of paralysis overcomes people. They watch but do nothing.
So when this seedy, odoriferous psychopath hunkered down and began to void his bowels people looked on but pretended it wasn’t really happening. I was absolutely stunned. Since Mr. X was constantly eating garbage, drinking to excess, and generally treating his system like a Nuclear Superfund Site, his waste material was not only foul, it was unholy. As it were
the Bhopal disaster, people in line began to flee his poisonous emanations, yet it was a child who finally said something, exactly as in The Emperor’s New Clothes. “Mommy, said the little girl, who had eyes bigger than the kids on one of those black velvet paintings, “that man is going poo-poo!”
Indeed he was. And as that sickening spray of noxious, loose stool issued forth, a woman screamed. Then another. My recorder recorded. Mr. X grunted. I winced.
Then the police arrived.
Realizing his compromised position, X screamed to me as he struggled to fend off two NYPD transit officers while hoisting his drawers back into position. “Zmuda, catch-22! Catch-22!”
Like a missile technician in a silo, I methodically removed the tape from my pocket and replaced the music tape with the catch-22 tape in the Sousa machine. Meanwhile, the officers were escorting Mr. X out the door, past the pool or putrefaction on the terrazzo, past the line of dumbstruck travelers. Once outside, I punched “play” and jacked up the volume.
“Officers, if you are listening to this tape, the man you are arresting is Mr. X, an Academy Award-nominated screenwriter and personal friend of mine. My name is. . .”
Well, I can’t say whom the voice on the tape belonged to because it would give away who Mr. X really is. Or was. As I said, I’m not completely sure if he’s dead or alive, so I’m not taking any chances. But suffice it to say, the voice on
the tape commanded instant respect from the two law enforcement officers. They paused to listen to the message.
“Assistant, please open the envelope. . .” As I quickly opened the manila envelope, the significance of the generic nature of the term “assistant” made me realize that X’s turnover in help must be appalling.
“And take out the photo.”
I removed a five-by-seven. It was a photo of Mr. X with is arm around the shoulder of the man on the tape. As did the two cops, I recognized him.
“Assistant, take out the article.”
I pulled out a yellowed newspaper clipping showing Mr. X’s photo and headline announcing that he’d been nominated for an Oscar. Now that we’d established that he was who the tape claimed, the voice continued.
“Officers, you know me. I would consider it a personal favor if you do not arrest this man, my friend Mr. X.”
As the cops pondered this, X waved at me. “Zmuda, the case!”
Now a seasoned commando, I whipped open the case and began distributing cash to the men, one, two, three, four hundred. . .I counted out two or three grand each, and within seconds they not were not made, they were joking with us and actually offering to escort us back inside. That was it. I cracked. As the cops walked off, I handed Mr. X his case of payoff dough, unslung my recorders, and, to his screaming protests, walked away. I was punch from lack of sleep and feared either a nervous breakdown or a knife in my ribs. Hardly short of cash, I took a cab all he way back to Manhattan and went into hiding. And for the next month or two, I was the guy with the furniture piled up against the door."